Thursday, March 21, 2013

Okay - "broke" is a strong word. I have Plantar Fasciitis in my left foot and it hurts to the point where I'm now not-so-glad that my kid is a feather-less parrot. Every time I step down I let fly a string of curse words that would make even the heartiest of barkeeps faint and swoon.
And the kid so kindly repeats them.
I should be careful not to say them around him - but I can't stop them - they bubble, they erupt, and he's always in ear shot.
Why?
Uh - because sometimes I use his little blond head as a crutch. ahahaha! He's 39" tall - so he's the perfect height. He giggles. I scream. We make a cute, albeit crazy, couple.

When I finally went to the doctor and he gave my my official diagnosis I had no choice but to sit back in my pleather easy chair thing (podiatrists have the swankiest "tables") and cry "THE DAMN INTERNET WAS RIGHT!" because I am an online google doc.
I will google my symptoms and decide that I have cancer.
Then I usually decide I'm too busy to have cancer since I have to raise a kid (and use him as an assistive walking device) and then settle on option number two.
This time it's that the underside of my foot hurts like hell and they, like all the doc and lawyers before us, stuck some fancy latin words together to make it sound better than "Hell heel" or "Heelishisness."
Maybe I should be the one naming stuff that ails us.

I'm renaming the paper cut to "Smuckingfit!" because that just feels better to yell than "PAPER CUT!" which, to be honest, could be that someone cut a piece of paper wrong and does nothing to describe the sheer ickiness of that tiny slice of immense pain that we all know and loathe.

I will also be renaming pregnancy to "Parasitic Procrastinator" or "Paracrastanation" - because that's what it is.
A lot.

Holly

About Me

Some things could only happen to me... or Jerry Lewis... A seemingly ordinary event like, say, grocery shopping often ends with my imminent peril. All for your enjoyment, of course.
This past September marked my 30-something birthday and with it, the final notch on the bedpost of my writing career. A tiny thing, really. Didn't have much of a chance of survival with my chubby hands wielding a pen, after all!
And speaking of chubby hands, in 2010 I gave birth to my son, Harry the Fourth (he's definitely his daddy's namesake!) and my life has NOT been the same since. But, ya know, in a good way. :)
So, if all else fails, I might make you laugh, or cry. Or maybe even both. So pull up a comfy couch or an ergonomic chair and read, partake in my oopsies, wonder at my blunders and snarf heartily at my guffaws as I navigate my life and try to survive the new one I created.
With much love,
Me.